


Thunder and Rain

by EchoThruTheWoods, Razziecat (EchoThruTheWoods)



Category: Final Fantasy 7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 11:07:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8203579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoThruTheWoods/pseuds/EchoThruTheWoods, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoThruTheWoods/pseuds/Razziecat
Summary: Sometimes grief is easier to bear when you share it with a companion - or a drinking buddy.





	

  
Autumn came to Edge on a storm, sweeping overland from the coast. Veld’s mood darkened along with the sky. A week of rain dripping down his neck every time he went outside didn’t help. Friday afternoon, he stood at his office window in WRO HQ, drinking cold coffee and muttering at the ugly grey clouds. “Getting as bad as Valentine, brooding like some cartoon villain.”  
  
Cool, damp air seeped in around the window frame, smelling faintly of salt. The ghost of an old, sour odor teased the back of his mouth. Kalm had smelled of salt.  
  
Salt, and charred wood, the sharp, garlicky stink of phosphorus, and…other things.  
  
He washed away the memory with the dregs of his coffee, and got back to work.  
  
He went to bed alone that night. Vincent didn’t need to sleep much anymore. Some nights he stayed up, reading or working on WRO reports. Other nights he spent in the spare bedroom, and Veld didn’t ask why. Vincent needed occasional solitude the way other people needed oxygen. If he was restless, he stayed out of Veld’s bed so Veld could sleep.  
  
Veld tossed and turned for over an hour. The damp got into his bones, and for all that he denied it, he wasn’t young anymore; the dull aches in knee and hip only emphasized it. He punched his pillow a few times, pushed the blankets off, then pulled them back over. His brain refused to settle, jumping from thought to thought. Eventually, fatigue won out over irritation, and he slept.  
  
A deep, rolling BOOM threw him out of sleep. He rolled, fell, crouched between the bed and the window, gun clutched in both hands. Dear gods, they’d hit the wrong place, Kalm was burning, and gods, Sarah, Felicia…!  
  
Another crackling boom, a flash of white light. Rain rattled the windows. Veld froze, blinking. Bloody hell, he was losing his mind. He slid the gun back under his pillow, absurdly glad that his hands didn’t shake, and dropped his head against the mattress.  
  
Fuck sleep. He needed a drink.  
  
His robe hung on the back of the bedroom door: Vincent‘s gift, a bit of unnecessary fuss to Veld’s mind, but just now he was chilled through and the heavy brown flannel was welcome as he headed to the kitchen.  
  
He found a stranger seated at the table, drinking _his_ whiskey from a crystal tumbler. The man was big, much taller than Veld, even sitting down, and broad-shouldered, with a pale, blunt-featured face and scruffy dark hair.  
  
And Veld had left his gun in his room. Son of a---wait. Veld squinted. “Vincent?”  
  
“I am not he.” His voice was almost Vincent’s, nearly as deep, but he spoke with an inflection Veld had never heard from his partner. The man stood, towering over Veld, and made a slight bow. “Gigas.”  
  
Giant. Well, that was true enough. “Uh, pleased to meet you. Veld Dragoon.”  
  
“Yes.” Gigas smiled, and there was something familiar about the way his mouth curved. “I know you. He speaks of you, the one called Vincenz.”  
  
“Mostly good, I hope.”  
  
“Mostly.” The slight grin was definitely Vincent’s, not that Veld got to see it often. Gigas sat down again, and nodded at the whiskey bottle. “I beg your pardon, Sir Dragoon. I have made free with your property. I ask forgiveness.”  
  
“Yeah, well, that’s all right. And I’m no ‘Sir’.” Veld got another glass, poured himself a measure of whiskey, and sat down across from the giant.  
  
Gigas drank, eying Veld over the edge of his glass. “Is not a dragoon a knight?”  
  
“Used to be.” Interesting: Gigas had a Nibelheim accent. “So, where is Vincent, and what brings you here, hmm?”  
  
Gigas blinked slowly, setting his tumbler down. “Nightmares brought me. Vincenz has…gone to a safe place.” His large hand fumbled with the glass, bringing it back up to his lips, and a watery chuckle sounded, stirring bubbles in the liquid. “Safe. What a joke!”  
  
He croaked a harsh laugh, shoulders twitching. “A joke, my friend! A very bad, very ugly joke!” The tumbler slipped from his hand. Whiskey and shards of glass splashed across the floor. He reached down, and his hand came back up gripping Cerberus, cocking the hammers with a loud click.  
  
Veld slipped out of his chair, backing up to the doorway. Great - the guy was drunk, moody, and armed. And Vincent was definitely not in control.  
  
“Easy, Gigas. No one’s gonna hurt you.”  
  
“Too late!” The giant rose, gun leveled at something only he could see. “I AM hurt, Dragoon! Here!” His free hand pulled his shirt open, revealing Vincent’s scars, but these were raw, red, weeping blood, the skin around them a nauseating shade of greenish purple. “Here, inside, I am hurt!”  
  
Thick fingers dug into his chest, ragged nails tearing his skin. Veld winced. “Don’t--”  
  
Gigas lunged. His huge hand gripped Veld’s shoulder, grinding bones and tendons together. He smelled like raw meat and whiskey. “Do you see how he cut me? I would not treat a dog so!”  
  
He let go of Veld, wrapping both hands around Cerberus’s grip, turning the gun toward his own head. Veld had no time to think; he rammed his left elbow into the gun. Gigas staggered, letting out a gurgling scream. The gun clattered to the floor. Veld kicked it under the stove. Vincent would probably kill him, but he’d worry about that later. Vincent might survive a shot to the head, but if Veld had to see it, his nightmares would never stop.  
  
Gigas doubled over, sobbing. “I am not an animal! I am a man!”  
  
Veld knelt in front of him, heedless of broken glass and whiskey. “I know, I know…”  
  
“Why, why? Ah, I am evil!” Gigas caught his breath, tears running down his face. “My fault. I did wrong. I sinned!”  
  
Oh, gods, not that shit again. Veld hauled him up by sheer strength of will and sat him in the nearest chair. “Right, that’s it. I know you’re in there, Valentine. Come on out.”  
  
“Make it stop,” Gigas moaned, tearing at his chest again, rocking back and forth. “Hurts, hurts, make it stop!” His voice rose, climbing rapidly toward hysteria.  
  
The surest cure for that was usually a right hook to the jaw, but Veld had tried that once before. It hadn’t been Gigas, he wasn’t even sure what or who it had been, but he’d realized afterward that he shouldn’t have done it. And it hadn’t worked.  
  
Gently, he pulled the man’s hands away from the ragged wounds. “I’ll fix it. I’ll make it stop, okay?”  
  
Blood streaked Gigas’s torso where clumsy, uneven stitches had joined sections of discolored skin together. Veld soaked a clean dishrag in cold water and began to wipe away the blood, but Gigas pushed him aside. “No. There is no fix. See my hands, how red they are! So many deaths! I killed for him, your Vincenz.”  
  
“Ah.” Veld sat back. Gigas wasn’t talking about physical wounds. “Well, that was battle. Kill or be killed. No shame in that. And if it comes to it, my hands aren’t clean, either.”  
  
Gigas lowered his head. “I am a monster. Vincenz and I, together we destroy. All that we touch dies. Even the boy.”  
  
“Boy?”  
  
“The youth, the great warrior! He and his mother, gone into the dark.”  
  
“No.” Veld grasped the big, calloused hands. “Sephiroth died, yes; but he’s at peace now. It took several tries, but that’s all over, and he’s at rest. And his mother--” He stopped. How did one explain a woman sealed behind a crystalline veil of her own making? Vincent had only told him so much, and he hadn’t seen Lucrecia himself. “She lives, in a way,” he said. “She’s resting, too, by her own choice. No one can harm her, not even you.”  
  
Gigas looked up, eyes wide with hope. “Is it so? After all the death, there is life yet?”  
  
“Of course there is. It’s all around you. Maybe you need to get out more often.” Oh dear gods, had he just said that? “Doesn’t Vincent ever talk to you?” He couldn’t quite believe he’d said that, either, but Gigas gave a vigorous nod.  
  
“He speaks of you, his good friend. And he mourns. He grieves for the dead.”  
  
“Well, that’s as it should be. But you grieve, and then you move on. The best thing you can do for your beloved dead--” Veld’s voice dried up. For just a moment, he tasted ashes and salt again. He cleared his throat. “The best thing you can do is to live your own life, and honor them in memory.”  
  
Picking up the whiskey, he filled his glass to the brim, and set it in front of Gigas. “Here. Drink to all of them. Those you killed, and those you loved. And I’ll…I’ll do the same.”  
  
They passed the glass back and forth, in comfortable silence, while wind and rain battered the house through the hours. There might have been tears, but if anyone ever asked, Veld would deny it with his last breath. Perhaps it was all another dream, born of booze and memories and a pair of red eyes bright as embers in the night.  
  
Veld woke slumped at the table, his head on his crossed arms. Dawn light brightened the windows. He shifted, and groaned. If the stiffness in his back didn’t let up, he might be here all day.  
  
“Veld?”  
  
He lifted his head. Vincent sat across from him - his Vincent, with his too-young face and his too-old eyes. Where the bulk of Gigas’s body was hidden would forever be a mystery to Veld. Vincent’s eyes were a fair bit redder than usual, half-hidden behind a stray lock of tangled hair.  
  
“Why were we sleeping at the table?”  
  
Veld straightened in his seat, carefully. “I met a friend of yours last night. Big guy, name of Gigas.”  
  
“Oh gods. What did he do? Are you all right?”  
  
“I’m fine. A little hung-over. And so are you, I suspect. Thought you said you couldn’t get drunk anymore?”  
  
“Well, Gigas thinks he can, so…”  
  
“Okay, I’m too tired to work that out. Just tell me what set him off in the first place.”  
  
“It was the mako. I heard it bubbling, just like--like in the tank. In fact, I can still hear--” Vincent paused, head tilted, listening, then sighed, covering his face with one hand. “Oh goddess, it’s the rain in the drainpipes.”  
  
Veld didn’t laugh, but he did allow himself a smile. “Don’t feel bad. I thought the thunder last night was Kalm blowing up again.”  
  
Vincent rose and put his arms around Veld. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Not everything is your fault, spook.”  
  
“I know, but--” Vincent stopped, looking down. “Veld? The floor is all sticky. And there’s broken glass everywhere.”  
  
“Now that actually _is_ your fault.” Veld rose, yawning. “Look, it’s Saturday morning, the floor’s a mess, and we’re both hung-over. In my professional opinion, there’s only one thing to do.”  
  
“Go back to bed?”  
  
“You got it.” He reached up, smoothed Vincent’s hair off of his face. “Want to join me?”  
  
Vincent graced him with that all-too-rare grin. “I’d thought you’d never ask.”  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Canon doesn't name Veld's wife. Every fanfic writer chooses what seems right to them and I picked Sarah.


End file.
